When the meal was finished Peter, standing by his father, his face very white, said:
“I am going to London to-morrow.”
Mr. Westcott had aged a great deal during the last month. His hair was touched with grey, there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, his lip trembled. He was looking moodily at the cloth, crumbling his bread. He did not hear Peter's remark, but continued his argument with Mrs. Pascoe:
“It wasn't cooked, I tell you—you're growing as slack as Hell.”
“Your precious son 'as got something as 'e would like to say to yer,” remarked that pleasant woman grimly.
Peter repeated his remark. His father grasped it but slowly—at last he said:
“Damn you, what are you talking about?”
“I'm leaving here and going to London to-morrow.”
Mr. Westcott turned his bloodshot eyes in the direction of the fire-place—“Curse it, I can't see straight. You young devil—I'll do for you—” all this said rather sullenly and as though he were speaking to himself.
Peter, having delivered his news, passed Mrs. Pascoe's broad body, and moved to the doorway. He turned with his hand on the door.
“I'm glad I'm going,” he said, “you've always bullied me, and I've always hated you. You killed my mother and she was a good woman. You can have this house to yourself—you and grandfather—and that woman—” he nodded contemptuously at Mrs. Pascoe, who was staring at him fiercely. His grandfather was fast asleep beneath the cushions.
“Damn you,” said Mr. Westcott very quietly. “You've always been ungrateful—I didn't kill your mother, but she was always a tiresome, crying woman.”
He stopped crumbling the bread and suddenly picked up a table knife and hurled it at Peter. His hand was trembling, and the knife quivering, was fastened to the door.
Mrs. Pascoe gasped, “Gawd 'elp us!”
Peter quietly closed the door behind him and went up to his room.
He was in no way disturbed by this interview. His relations with his father were not of the things that
